


lie here with you where the shadows run

by voodoochild



Series: Challenge on Infinite Earths [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, The Hour
Genre: Alternate Universe - Book/Movie Fusion, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Captivity, Crossover, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-05
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-17 18:59:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is one of the few men alive who can walk the halls of Dragonstone and leave as he pleases. She's caught in between family and destiny. (Fusion with the Song of Ice and Fire series, because the implications of Lix's surname were too good to pass up.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	lie here with you where the shadows run

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Meddow, who first posited the idea of Lix as a baseborn Baratheon, Mistress of Whispers. Title from Cream's "White Room".

It seems he is one of the few men alive who can walk the halls of Dragonstone and leave as he pleases.

King Stannis would protest, if he could, but even Stannis Baratheon cannot imprison a representative of the Iron Bank of Braavos. Not unless he wants to lose his crown like the rest of the kings who refuse the Iron Bank their due. And Randyll has known Stannis quite a long time, since Robert’s Rebellion. Since he was an exile of Old Wyk, an Ironborn who would not take up axe and greatsword, who hated sailing and reaving. He had chosen to use the schooling his maester had provided him and his skill with poisons to become an envoy for the Iron Bank, and the Braavosi allowed him to prosper, sending him to Storm’s End to cultivate the middle of the Baratheon brothers into an asset.

Randyll hadn’t counted on a baseborn daughter of King Steffon proving an even greater asset. Alyxis Storm, bastard sister to Robert, Stannis, and Renly Baratheon, was no ordinary king’s bastard, her mother Alys Dondarrion of Blackhaven, with kin all over the Riverlands and the Crownlands. Those connections, including a lengthy friendship with Varys, earned her the unofficial title Mistress of Whispers. There were some, though not in Stannis or Robert’s hearing, who whispered that she should be Storm Queen - that she would have brought greater honor to the Stormlands than Selyse Florent ever could, that Margaery Tyrell would incorporate them into the Reach.

He had returned to Westeros from Braavos after Robert’s death, with new accounts to settle with Queen Regent Cersei and Littlefinger. While in King’s Landing, Varys had dropped a few words in his ear - “if you should find yourself sailing past Dragonstone, please do check on the well-being of our mutual friend. I worry for her, with that Red Priestess skulking about."

Coming from the eunuch, a strong worry indeed.

His ship is met at the port by the Queen’s Men - Queen Melisandre, he realizes, and turns his eyes to the Red Priestess behind them. Apparently his name and title still carry some weight with the followers of R’hellor, as they do not set him and his ship aflame, but instead escort him into Sea Dragon Tower, where King Stannis waits for him. Stannis looks to have aged twenty years since the Blackwater, though he clasps Randyll’s hand solemnly as Randyll bows. 

"Your Grace," Randyll says, “There are whispers in the royal court. Why should a man be afraid to set sail for Dragonstone, and why have I not heard from your sister in seven moons?"

"R’hellor is cleansing the unworthy," the Red Priestess answers.

He can’t help the archness of his tone - he’s never cared for the religion of the One God. “I did not realize *you* ruled in Dragonstone, Lady Melisandre. I shall inform the Iron Bank at once." 

"You know perfectly well who rules here, Brown," Stannis growls, and gestures for Melisandre to leave.

The woman inclines her head, passes uncomfortably close to Randyll before stopping, inhaling sharply. She looks up at him with her fathomless black eyes, and says “no matter how far you run, moneylender, you are a creature of the sea, the salt spray of the cliffs of Old Wyk. You shall never sit a throne. Her destiny lies in maelstroms and old rulers that bear her name. You cannot contain a storm, after all."

She descends the narrow, twisting stairs leading down to the Stone Drum, and Randyll’s fingers itch for an axe he hasn’t carried in twenty years. He very suddenly doesn't care how he’s addressing the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms and growls “let me see her". 

Stannis stares out from under hooded eyes. “The priestess is right - Lyx will never be yours. When I take the throne, I intend to legitimize her, make her a good match. You are an honorable man, one of the few of your kingdom I have ever known, but you hold no lands or titles worthy of the hand of the Lady of Blackhaven."

"Your sister would never want to be married, Your Grace," Randyll returns. “I cannot envision her holding court at Blackhaven, or anywhere else you chose to gift her. And I want to see her, if you’d be so gracious."

There is a long moment where Randyll suspects he may be in jeopardy of sharing a cell with the Onion Knight in the dungeons of Dragonstone, but Stannis simply sighs, and waves his guards forward to escort Randyll across the narrow stone bridge separating the Chamber of the Painted Table from the topmost quarters of the Sea Dragon Tower. The guards mutter nervously, but Randyll has walked the rope bridges of Pyke at heights that top this. They leave him with the key to the door and take up positions on either side, hugging the stone walls surreptitiously. Her voice echoes out of the chamber as the door unlocks.

"Go fuck yourself, Stannis. Or fuck Melisandre. I don’t particularly care to see you today."

He has to smile - she certainly hasn't lost any of her spirit. He opens the door and steps through, closing it behind him and ducking the book she sends flying in his direction.

"I can leave," he says, but finds himself with an armful of angry-yet-pleased Lyx. “Or not, if you like."

She presses herself to him, her trousers worn and shirt hastily mended. They’ve taken her daggers, arm sheathes lying abandoned on a vanity table, her boots alongside. She’s never been particularly concerned with ladylike neatness and habits, which is fine with him. He runs his fingers through matted curls, and she exhales harshly.

"Seven _hells_ , Randyll," she breathes, “how did you get past the Red Bitch and her torches?"

"I would take care with her. She sounds as if she has plans for you."

Lyx pulls a face, backs him into an overstuffed chair and settles astride his lap. “She’s full of shit, darling. The voices in her head have told her there’s power in Baratheon blood, so she needs to burn one of us as a sacrifice to R’hellor. It won’t be Stannis, he’s her Asshai’i warrior prince or some rot, and Davos got Edric out before she could try him. Stannis won’t let her touch me."

His breath catches, and he presses a kiss to her lips. He tastes Dornish Red on her tongue, and it’s like the Rebellion all over again. When he’d fallen in with Ned Stark’s forces and she’d lead a garrison of Robert’s best mercenaries, the both of them scouting Summerhall before the battle. She’s faded from that wild girl in armor, chafing under guard, face lined and mouth pinched. Gods above, she should be in her prime now, laughing sweet and rich by his side.

"Say the word." His voice is soft, pitched for her ears alone and not the guards at the door. “We’ll go to Braavos, live on the canals. Sail to Lorath, to Pentos, even Volantis or the Jade Sea."

She smiles sweet and rueful, an expression not many living have seen because Lyx Storm does not show sweetness. He cups her cheek in his hand and she turns her face into the touch. “Why stop there? I could be a courtesan, own my own barge and servants and wear the finest silks and jewelry. You could be my patron - do you think I’d be worthy of the Iron Bank?" 

She’s teasing. She’ll never go, because running away is cowardice. It’s treason.

He sighs, returning her teasing, but matching the regret in her eyes. “The Iron Bank would have to prove worthy of you, and I wouldn’t be the representative of the Bank. You’d have to make do with Nestoris, or Dimittis."

"Those purple-robed fools? Never. I’d insist on you."

"The Storm Queen," he murmurs, and she shivers against him. “On a barge of ash wood, moored in the Moon Pool. You’d be more desirable than the Black Pearl, more beautiful than the Nightingale."

"Flatterer."

She cannot leave this island, but they manage to forget that for the night.


End file.
